


a flower a day (keeps your feelings at bay)

by tardix



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, how did we end up here???, this was only supposed to be 1k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardix/pseuds/tardix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’re you allergic to?”</p><p>John shrugs his shoulders, reaching up to absentmindedly tweak his ponytail. “Pollen.”</p><p>Alex stares at him. He blinks once. Twice. A third time. “But you work in a flower shop.”</p><p>“The allergies aren’t real bad. I mean, I don’t break out into hives or anything. Just get wicked congestion.” John attempts a laugh, one that promptly turns into a cough.</p><p>Alex patiently waits for the coughing fit to subside before continuing:</p><p>“But you work in a <i>flower shop</i>.”</p><p> </p><p>(or, john is a florist who's allergic to flowers, and alexander Does Not Understand.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a flower a day (keeps your feelings at bay)

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this took _way_ too long to finish and it was originally only supposed to be 1k but then it was 5k and i'm not sure how this happened?? but oh well.

“John, where the fuck are the chrysanthemums?”

At the sound of his name being called, quite frustratedly, across the flower shop, John glances up from the magazine he’s been mindlessly flipping through for the past hour – business always tended to be slower in early hours: one of the morning shift’s few perks. The shop tends to be peaceful whenever John is on duty. Hence his confusion at the disturbance. His eyes seek out the owner of the exasperated voice and, when they land on her, he can’t help but chuckle under his breath.

Even with the help of a stool, Maria still has to stand on her toes to reach the tops of the shelves lining the shop’s walls – and that’s exactly what she’s doing when John remarks with feigned innocence: “Aren’t _you_ in charge of inventory this week?”

His fellow florist shoots him a glare over her shoulder, nose scrunched up irritably, and then proceeds to stick out her tongue.

“Shut your freckly face, Laurens, and come help me.”

Half amused and half exasperated by his coworker’s unfailing lack of maturity, John rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh as he closes the magazine – not that he’s particularly disappointed in doing so; with the distinct lack of reading material in the shop, he’s been subjected to reading and rereading the same article on the bee population’s unsettling disappearance for the last half-hour. At this point, even Maria’s distressed nagging feels like a reprieve.

“There aren’t any more on the shelf?” he wonders aloud.

Maria lowers herself back onto the balls of her feet before hopping off the stool, her mocha-colored curls bouncing around her shoulders as she makes her way toward the front desk. With a sugary smile plastered to her face, she plops down on the edge of the counter. “Would I be asking you where the fuck they are if there were?”

“Language.”

Maria snorts. “Like you’re one to talk.”

“I’m an _adult._ It’s different.”

“So am I.” She flashes him a wry smile. “I turned eighteen two months ago, dumbass.”

John rolls his eyes at the affectionate tone in which she uttered the insult. “You haven’t even graduated yet. You’re still an adolescent,” he insists.

“And _you’re_ only, like, three years older than me.”

“Five years,” he corrects.

Maria brushes him off with a wave of her hand. “Details.”

He tries his best not to roll his eyes again (which he finds to be alarmingly difficult around his coworker) and lifts his feet from where they’d been propped up on the counter to instead set them firmly on the floor.

“Have you checked the backroom?” he asks, pushing the chair back with his knees when he stands. “We just got a new shipment in this morn–”

Before John can so much as finish his sentence, Maria is already sliding off the counter and disappearing into the backroom.

He hears the sound of boxes being shuffled across the floor, followed by a triumphant huff from Maria: “I found ‘em–!” She stops short, lets out an irritated groan, then, “Are you kidding me? _John!”_

When she exits the backroom, a box – of the missing chrysanthemums, no doubt – cradled in her arms, her lips are pursed and hold a slightly-intimidating scowl.

John raises his eyebrow.

Heaving a sigh, Maria fixes him with a pointed look. “You do realize that Miss Martha’s supposed to be coming by at noon to pick up those arrangements, right? _And_ the bouquet?”

He bristles, lifts his chin a fraction of an inch. “I’m aware.”

“Then why haven’t you unpacked the fucking chrysanthemums yet? They’re the main pieces in the arrangements and,” she shakes the box of flowers to emphasize her point, “they’re all still in their packaging!”

Heat rises to John’s cheeks, tints the tips of his ears pink, and he scowls down at the _Home and Garden_ magazine splayed across the front desk. “I forgot to take my allergy medicine this morning.”

“No wonder you’ve been sniffling all day.” Maria barks out a humorless laugh as she sets the box down on the desk in front of him. “Good luck with the rest of your shift, my friend.”

John whips his head up to send her a half-hearted glare.

For most of the morning, he’d managed to avoid direct contact with any of the flowers, keeping a majority of his dreaded allergy symptoms at bay. But now, as he warily eyes the box of chrysanthemums sitting on the counter beside the cash register, he can feel the pressure beginning to build in his sinuses.

Damn allergies. Damn pollen. Damn bees. Decreasing population, huh? Good riddance.

(As a florist, he knows this sentiment is counterproductive. Bees are _kind of_ essential to the whole flower thing. But at the moment, he can’t find it in him care.)

“Now,” Maria says, snapping John out of his thoughts, “I’m going to go get ready, and _you,_ ” she points a deliberate finger at him, “are going to finish putting these damn arrangements together.”

John’s eyes widen at her words, and he balks when she begins untying the shop apron from around her waist. “What? Where are you going?”

“I’ve got plans,” she says in a sing-song voice, hanging her discarded apron on the wall.

John scoffs, “Since when?”

“I’m going out with ‘Liza and the girls. I’ve had it marked on the calendar for weeks,” she replies airily, sweeping her dark curls over her shoulder. “Figured you would’ve noticed by now.”

As far as John can recall, no such event had ever been established, much less written on the employee calendar – the one mounted on the wall, next to the sign in sheet and the peg where Maria hung her apron. He checks it every morning when he clocks into work; there’s no way he wouldn’t have noticed it. And he decides to voice his thoughts as such:

“Bullshit.”

Maria crosses her arms over her chest and, nodding toward the calendar, lifts her eyebrows ever so slightly: a silent dare.

John Laurens doesn’t back down from a dare.

With his shoulders squared, he makes his way toward the calendar and stops just before it, sparing a glance at Maria over his shoulder, who promptly smirks and waves her hand as if to say, “Go on.”

Turning his attention back to the calendar, he squints in order to make out the messy scrawl decorating each of the boxes, fully intent upon finding today’s date free of any writing. But when his gaze lands on the twenty-fifth, his eyes widen.

Sure enough, scribbled in bright purple pen under today’s date: _Mani-pedis w/ the girls at eleven! – Maria xoxo_

John takes a moment to scowl at the purple words (the same color as the ink staining Maria’s fingers), but then his shoulders deflate and he whirls back around to face Maria with big eyes, his tone pleading when he blurts out, “You’re not _actually_ leaving me, are you? I can’t do this all by myself, ‘Ria. What if I _die_?”

Maria rolls her eyes at his melodrama and slings her purse over her shoulder. “A bit of sneezing won’t kill you, John.”

An overdramatic sigh escapes him. “I know,” he mutters grudgingly.

“Now, remember,” she says, making a show of ticking off each of her fingers as she rambles. “Each arrangement gets nine chrysanthemums and the bouquet gets seven – the red and white ones, not the yellows. Miss Martha is picking ‘em up at noon, so they need to be done a little before then, alright? I’ll be damned if that sweet woman doesn’t get her flowers in time for the rehearsal dinner. She’s already got enough on the plate with the rest of the wedding prep.”

“Maria, don’t worry. I’ve got it covered,” John insists. He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile, then waves her off. “Go on. Have fun with the girls. Tell ‘em I said hi.”

Her glossed lips pull back into a pearly white grin, and she sounds surpisingly genuine when she says, “Thanks, John.”

She turns to leave, but pauses at the last second, then pivots on her heel and races back to give him an obnoxious kiss on the cheek – no doubt leaving a smear of red lipstick behind – before flashing him one last smile and disappearing out the front doors of the flower shop.

(It isn’t until later that he realizes what the purple ink staining her fingers meant: “That _sneaky_ little–”)

John stands in the midst of the empty shop, breathing in the subtle fragrances and the clear silence and the clean air.

A sudden sneeze sneaks up on him, shattering his moment of serenity, and he immediately shoots a glare at the box of flowers on the counter. Damn pollen.

He sniffles one last time, and then he gets to work.

It doesn’t take long for him to fall into a routine.

It’s a process he’s used to: the putting together of floral arrangements – last month, during the Valentine’s Day rush, he had to finish a dozen arrangements of roses in a span of thirty minutes, so two dozen arrangements in two hours should be a breeze. Of course, he’s normally putting these arrangements together when he’s doped up on allergy meds and all but immune to the pollen-dusted petals, but that’s beside the point.

His routine consists of the following: Plucking the chrysanthemums from their boxes, sniffing loudly, then bundling the blossoms together, wiping his watery eyes with the back of his shirt sleeve, and placing the finished arrangements to the side before he hacks up a lung. It’s a vicious cycle, but it’s one he finds himself easily absorbed in.

By the time noon comes around, John’s so fixated on the task at hand that he nearly misses the sound of bells jingling above the shop’s entrance when the doors swing open.

“Hey, Martha, the bouquet’ll be done in a sec. I’m wrapping it up now and–” John swipes his sleeve under his nose before glancing up from his work, only to have his smile falter and his eyes widen when they land on the new arrival. “You’re not Martha.”

The man standing at the front of the shop definitely isn’t Martha. He’s lanky and fidgety and by the way he glances around the shelves, wide eyes ardently admiring the blossoms upon blossoms decking the walls, it’s obvious that this is his first time venturing into the shop.

“Uh, no. Sorry.” The guy fiddles with a few tendrils of dark hair that had fallen loose from his ponytail, which swishes behind him as he observes the shop. After a second, his eyes are drawn away from the flowers and back to John. “It’s Alex, actually.”

“Alex,” John repeats, internally cringing at how scratchy his voice sounds, and clears his throat before speaking again. “My bad. I was expecting– Never mind. Welcome to _The Green Room_. Anything you need help finding?”

“Yeah, uh, hold on.” Alex glances down at the messenger bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder and begins to rummage through it. John slides off the stool he’d been sitting on with a half-hearted sniff. The sudden movement makes his congested head swim, but he ignores the discomfort in favor of returning his attention to the customer, who decides to make a noise of triumph at that very moment.

John watches as Alex pulls a slip of paper out of the bag with a satisfied smile, and he thinks it’s a miracle it was uncovered at all – his bag is overflowing with books and papers, and it looks far too heavy for the guy’s skinny shoulders to be lugging around all day.

“Alright, okay, let’s see here,” Alex says, his voice trailing off as he squints his eyes at the tiny scrawl on the paper. From the angle John’s looking at it, the words look suspiciously French. “Dammit, Laf,” Alex swears under his breath. “How the hell am I supposed to read this sorry excuse for cursive? Fuck, uh, okay– Pennies? I think it says pennies?” He looks up, his eyebrows bunched together in a way that John shouldn’t find so obnoxiously cute. “Are there any flowers by that name?”

“I think you mean _peonies_.”

Alex gives a hasty nod of his head and shoves the crumpled piece of paper into his pocket. “Yeah, that sounds right.”

“Great.” John offers him a smile. “They’re over here.”

After showing Alex to the correct aisle, selecting a dozen pink peonies, and coughing into his elbow once or twice (or three times), John leads them back to the front, where Martha’s chrysanthemum arrangements are still scattered across the countertop.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, carefully wrapping up the peonies. “These are for–”

“Martha.” Alex hands him a wad of cash.

John arches an eyebrow when Alex finishes his thought for him. “Right. How–?”

“You said the name when I walked in,” he answers before John has a chance to finish asking the question. Alex leans against the counter, his gaze beginning to wander again – he seems to take a particular interest in the hanging pots teeming with brightly colored flowers. “Wait, Martha?” He stops short, as if he suddenly remembered something. His brow furrows and his eyes return to John. “As in Martha soon-to-be Washington, Martha?”

John nods and opens his mouth to ask _how_ he could have possibly jumped to the correct conclusion, but Alex is already talking again.

“She’s getting the flowers for the wedding here? What a coincidence. Her fiancé and I, we work right up the street. Well, technically, _he_ works – I just intern. I’m surprised Washington never mentioned this place. Well, no, actually, I’m not. He’s not very involved in the whole wedding thing. Well, he’s obviously involved to _some_ extent – he’s the groom, after all – just not with the planning side of things. He probably doesn’t even know this is where they’re getting the flowers. Not that Martha’s keeping him out of the loop or anything, she’d let him in on everything in a heartbeat, but I doubt he wants to get involved with all that, you know? He’s not the best in social situations. Ironic, when you think about it. I mean, he’s my boss and he’s a great mayor and the people love him, but–” He pauses to replenish his lungs with fresh air, the first breath he’s taken since beginning his spiel. But when he continues, he’s no longer raving about Mayor Washington. “Are you alright?”

It takes John a second to realize Alex’s question is directed at him.

Under the dark-haired man’s scrutinizing gaze, John feels the tips of his ears heat up. He instantly begins to busy himself with sliding the bills Alex gave him into the cash register and counting his change into his hand, looking anywhere but Alex’s apprehensive face.

“Yeah. M’fine.” He coughs once, sneezes twice, and continues with a scratchy, “Why d’you ask?”

“Well,” Alex begins, tilting his head to the side in a way that makes John feel like he’s being studied as meticulously as one of Alex’s many books, “your eyes look kind of puffy and your nose is really red and keep _sneezing_ and–” His eyes soften, his eyebrows dip down. “Hey, are you crying?”

“What? No! I mean, _fuck._ ” John exclaims, startled. He lifts his arm to wipe at his watery eyes, suppressing a groan when he feels yet another sneeze coming on. “Sorry. Allergies.”

The concern on Alex’s face brings a splash of color to John’s already flushed cheeks – the way his brows pinch together and his mouth dips down at the corners, it’s just _unfair_. There’s no other way to describe it. Up until this point, John had only ever guessed at the fact that the universe was out to get him. Now he _knows_ it is.

“What’re you allergic to?”

John shrugs his shoulders, reaching up to absentmindedly tweak his ponytail. “Pollen.”

Alex stares at him. He blinks once, twice, a third time. “But you work in a flower shop.”

“The allergies aren’t real bad. I mean, I don’t break out into hives or anything. Just get wicked congestion.”

“But you work in a flower shop.”

“It’s usually not like this. I just forgot to take my medicine this morning, and apparently the pollen count’s way up today. Go figure, right?” John attempts a laugh, one that promptly turns into a cough.

Alex patiently waits for the coughing fit to subside before continuing:

“But you work in a _flower shop_.”

The incredulous tone of voice draws John’s attention back to Alex (not that it had strayed all that far in the first place) and the incomprehensive look on his face.

“Yeah?” John says slowly, though it sounds more like a question than a confirmation. He isn’t quite following Alex’s inability to understand that John does, in fact, work in a flower shop when he just sold him what were, in fact, _flowers_.

“But– _why?"_

Soft bells chime when the shop’s doors swing open, cutting their conversation short; Alex turns around at the same time John glances over his shoulder.

A pretty woman with dark hair and warm eyes walks into the shop, an amiable smile adorning her face. John recognizes her at once.

“G’morning, Miss Martha,” he greets, returning her smile with one of his own.

“Good morning to you, too, sweetie. Though it’s not exactly morning anymore,” Martha says. She huffs out a sheepish laugh. “Sorry for being so late. I got caught up at the bakery and it put me behind schedule– Well, I’ll be.” Her eyes settle on Alex, who waves and offers her a broad smile.

“Morning, Mrs. Soon-To-Be-Washington,” Alex says, at which Martha rolls her eyes, albeit fondly.

“Alexander Hamilton. What a pleasant surprise.”

John shifts his eyes between the two curiously while Alex gestures to the boxes of chrysanthemum arrangements on the counter. “Need any help carrying these out to the car?”

“That’d be lovely, thank you,” she says, lifting two of the boxes into her arms while Alex scoops up the rest, his own peony bouquet tucked carefully beneath his arm. Martha catches John’s eye and says a quick, “Thank you, too, sweetie. Tell Maria I said ‘hello,’” before disappearing out the doors.

Alex, all but hidden by the stack of boxes piled high in his arms, follows at her heels. But on his way to the front, he pauses and glances back at John over his shoulder.

“Hey, I never caught your name.”

The unfinished question hangs between them in suspended animation. A warm feeling flutters in his chest, which he absently blames on his allergies, and John finds himself struggling to catch his breath as he reaches for the next few words.

“John. John Laurens.”

“Thanks for the peonies, John Laurens.” Alex’s lips twitch, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I still think you should find a new job, lest the allergies win.” He winks, says, “See you later,” and then he’s gone.

John most certainly hopes he does.

\---

Why Martha invited Maria and himself last minute to the wedding is absolutely beyond him. As far as John knows, the florists just provide the flowers. That’s it. They don’t usually make a habit of sticking around afterwards to sit at the tables decorated by their floral arrangements.

But, apparently, Martha was taken with Maria as soon as she saved the day with a cake – Martha’s original cake order fell through at the last second, a monumental catastrophe in the world of wedding planning according to his coworker, and the whole celebration would have fallen apart if Maria hadn’t come to the rescue. She somehow convinced Eliza, the night before the wedding, to drop what she was doing at her bakery and instead focus on Martha’s cake. And because Eliza’s _Eliza_ , the cake was beautiful and delicious and finished with time to spare.

And inviting them to the wedding, it seems, was the only possible way to repay the gesture.

John himself can think of a few other suitable ways, but that’s beside the point.

With the reception in full swing, the newly Mr. and Mrs. Washington twirl together on the dancefloor – despite the crease between the Mayor’s brow, it’s obvious that he’s enjoying himself.

John watches the happy couple out the corner of his eye, absentmindedly sipping some alcoholic beverage he doesn’t know the name of. He’s been seated at the bar for most of the celebration, save for during the ceremony itself. Maria ditched him as soon as they arrived – he thinks she’s off dancing with Eliza, who also received an impromptu invite as a result of her exquisite cake-making abilities.

Which leaves John alone, swirling the drink around his glass as he fidgets with the cuffs of his suit and wonders how much longer he has to stay before it’s socially acceptable to make his escape.

The sound of a bar stool squeaking against the tile floor draws John’s thoughts back to the present. When he looks to his right, it’s none other than Alexander Hamilton sliding onto the stool beside him.

“John Laurens.” Alex flashes him a wide smile that makes his eyes crinkle and leaves a fluttery feeling in John’s chest – the latter he promptly blames on the alcohol. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t expect to _be_ here,” John says dryly, sighing into his drink. “But Maria can charm her way into anything, so.” He shrugs.

Either Alex doesn’t notice his sullen tone, or he just ignores it. Setting his half-empty glass on the bar, he turns to face John fully. “I, for one, am glad you’re here,” he says it like he’s determined to convince John of the fact.

“Yeah?” John lifts the glass to his lips, hiding a grin in his drink.

“Most definitely.”

John isn’t one to catch feelings for someone after only meeting them once. But Alex, so it seems, has turned out to be a special case.

The universe really _does_ hate him.

“Did, uh,” John clears his throat. “Did your significant other like the flowers?”

Alex shakes his head, waving his hand absentmindedly. “They weren’t for me. I picked ‘em up for my friend to give to _his_ significant other.”

“Oh.”

Well, isn’t that just the icing on the cake?

Now he's cute _and_ single.

Alex tips his head back to finish off his glass of wine, and John pretends not to notice the tan column of his throat, long and stretched taut as he swallows.

“They’re both here, actually. Probably making fools of themselves on the dancefloor,” he continues, clicking his tongue. “Amateurs.”

Silence drifts over the two of them, but, seeing as Alex can’t keep his thoughts to himself for more than a few minutes, the quiet doesn’t last long.

“You’re still working alongside your adversaries, I presume.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The flowers.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I’m still working at the shop.”

Alex makes a disapproving noise into his glass.

A pause in the conversation, then:

“You wanna dance?”

“What?” John’s eyes widen, and he nearly chokes on his drink when Alex repeats himself. “But weren’t just going on about your friends making fools of themselves on the dancefloor?”

Alex rolls his eyes as if the answer is obvious. “Yeah, ‘cause they don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”

“I won’t know what the hell I’m doing, either,” John points out.

“But you’ll have the advantage of dancing with _me_ ,” Alex insists, his smile widening with each passing second, “and _I_ know exactly what I’m doing.”

A pause. John downs the rest of his drink.

“Let’s go.”

\---

A few days after the wedding finds John back in the flower shop, perched on the stool behind the counter with a brand new issue of _Home and Garden_ in his hands. The sun’s shining, the birds chirping, and John had blessedly remembered to take his allergy meds.

The morning shift, as usual, brought only a few customers and, knowing this, John told Maria she didn’t have to come in until later. Which meant he was by himself, reveling in the shop’s peaceful quiet, when Alexander Hamilton walked through the front doors.

“John Laurens!”

John looks up from his magazine at the delighted exclamation, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face when Alex bounds into the shop.

“You’re a lot less sneezy today,” he remarks casually, coming to a gradual halt in front of the counter, “despite being surrounded by the enemy.”

John’s eyebrow quirks as he closes his magazine. “Enemy?”

“The pollen, John.”

“Oh, of course. The pollen.” He does his best to stifle a laugh – which, granted, isn’t all that much. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“Kind of.” Alex pauses and rolls his lower lip between his teeth, like he’s debating whether or not what he’s about to say is really worth. But then he leans forward. “Got anything that says, ‘You’re a complete and utter douchebag who doesn’t understand half the things you’re talking about and that you should crawl back into the dark, dank hell hole you somehow managed to escape from’?” He pauses, then tacks on: “I’m asking for a friend.”

John stares, wide-eyed, and tries to process the onslaught of words that just fell from Alex’s mouth in an exceptionally short amount of time.

“Sorry, let me rephrase that.” Alex looks him dead in the eye, completely deadpan, and continues, “Got anything that reeks?”

The laugh torn from John’s throat is involuntary, yet surprisingly genuine.

“Should I even bother asking?” he arches his eyebrow amusedly.

The look on Alex’s face says he’s going to tell him whether John asks or not.

“Washington’s other intern, Jefferson,” Alex spits out the name like it’s acid – but, judging by his expression, John thinks this Jefferson might as well be the equivalent, “is trying to steal my job. But he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing half the time and he’s _so_ bigoted and ignorant and I don’t understand why Washington doesn’t just fire him already–” He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, then breathes out. “So, I have decided to hide an atrocious-smelling flower in his office.”

John stares at him again, blank expression unwavering, and for a second, it looks like Alex is regretting his decision. He opens his mouth, probably to take back his initial request.

But then John is saying, “I think I have just the thing,” and the relief that washes over Alex makes his smile widen, brings back the fluttery feeling in his chest – and this time he can’t blame it on the allergies, or the alcohol.

“John Laurens, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

But the way Alex’s face lights up and a wide grin overtakes his features, crinkling the corners of his eyes, John thinks, is thanks enough.

\---

Maria hounds him relentlessly for details after she passes Alexander on her way into the shop, just moments after he’d left.

“Isn’t he the guy you were dancing with at Martha’s wedding?”

“I dunno. I danced with a lot people at the wedding–”

“Like hell you did. It was him, right?”

A resigned sigh. “Yeah.”

“…You _like_ him, don’t you?” She beams at him across the counter and proceeds to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively. “You _like_ like him.”

John groans. “I’m taking my lunch break early.”

Maria’s gleeful laughter follows him out of the flower shop and all the way down the street.

He doesn’t _like_ like Alex.

Well.

Maybe he does.

\---

John’s standing outside the flower shop, beanie pulled down over his ears and hands shoved into the pockets of his coat as he waits for Alex. They finally got around to exchanging numbers a few weeks ago. At first the texts were mostly Alex complaining about Jefferson or updating John on the progress of his atrocious-smelling-flower plan.

(“He moved his stuff to the supply closet, John! Desk and everything! He keeps trying to get the building evacuated, saying he thinks there’s a gas leak – what a fucking idiot. The flower doesn’t smell remotely close to gas. And he doesn’t even know it’s me! Can you believe this guy? I think Burr suspects it was me, but fuck that guy. He told me to shut up on my _first day_ , in front of e _veryone._ I’d give anything to know who shoved the stick up _his_ ass, just so I can high-five ‘em–”)

And now, a month later, they’re still talking.

The latest text Alex sent had said to meet him outside the flower shop on John’s break, that they could go grab a coffee so Alex could run his newest speech by him before submitting it to Washington.

John’s break starts at one o’clock, but as he peers down at the screen of his phone, the bright numbers read _1:07,_ and he can’t help but worry. After another second of internally debating whether or not to call him, John unlocks his phone with the intention of sending a text instead – a compromise.

But he doesn’t get the chance to even open his messages before someone’s tapping him on the shoulder. As soon as John turns around, he’s bombarded by a bouquet of bright purple being shoved in his face.

“I got you flowers.”

John feels his eyes widen when they land on Alex a few feet in front of him, scarf wrapped around his neck and hat pulled snugly over his head, looking far more sheepish than he usually does around John. The reason, he guesses, is the bouquet of flowers Alex holds in his fidgety hands.

They’re hydrangeas.

“They’re hydrangeas,” Alex blurts out, voicing John’s own observation. “Maria helped me pick them out earlier today, before your shift started. I was doing some reading last night, and the website I was on said that hydrangeas are some of the best flowers for people with allergies, since they don’t produce a whole lot of pollen. Obviously, I investigated the source, just to be sure, but everything seemed to check out, so–” He holds out the bouquet. “Here.”

By the way Alex tugs on the end of his ponytail with his free hand, twists the locks around his fingers, John can tell he’s anxiously awaiting a response.

“I–”

“If you don’t like them,” Alex says hurriedly, starting to pull the flowers back, “you don’t have to take ‘em. I just thought you might–”

John interrupts his babbling by reaching out to grab the bouquet, his fingers gingerly wrapping around Alex’s. “No, I like them.” Alex shoots him a dubious look, eyebrows raised and lips pursed. “I _do,_ ” John insists. He feels himself grinning, and only then does Alex visibly relax. “I do like them. Thank you.”

“You like them,” he repeats, like he can’t quite believe it.

The smile that slowly inches across Alex’s face is blinding. And it _does things_ to John. It makes him warm all over, makes his cheeks flush and his chest fluttery.

“I’m gonna put these in a vase, alright?” Alex nods, practically glowing, and relinquishes his hold on the flowers so John can take them inside. “Then we can go grab coffee, and you can update me on how the flower’s treating that prick Jefferson after I proofread your essay.”

If at all possible, Alex’s face brightens even more.

“Oh, man,” he huffs out a disbelieving laugh, “you aren’t gonna _believe_ what he did this morning. Our flower has been a complete success, case closed. I owe you big time.”

John laughs, breathless.

_Our flower._

And while Alex continues talking at his usual pace (i.e. non-stop), trailing a few feet behind John as he searches for a vase, John thinks he probably shouldn’t like how it sounds as much as he does.

**Author's Note:**

> come scream with me about the founding fathers on [tumblr](http://elizaschulyers.tumblr.com/)


End file.
